The Angel's Lament Part I
by ComtesseCDC
Summary: Christine Daaé was a pretty girl who had only begun her career when she had her triumph performance at the Opéra Garnier but her life as she knows it begins to change with a call from a mysterious stranger and a letter from an old friend. Leroux based.R&R


**Please read and review. This is a work in progress and I would greatly appreciate and reader in put. This is part 1 of a much larger story that I have been working on for quite some time now. Part one is pretty much a retelling of the original novel by Gaston Leroux, but with much original content and original characters. For those of you who are wondering, yes, Wilhelmina Harker is a reference to _Dracula_ that I inserted for a friend of mine. However, this story is not, by any standards a crossover. It contains a few characters from other stories, but is purely Phantom in content otherwise. Anyway, I hope that you will enjoy and take the time to review.**

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><p><em>Chapter one: Numbers in Blood<em>

Paris, France August the twenty-ninth, eighteen eighty-five was a stormy evening about eleven o'clock when the evening gala was being performed at the Palais Garnier. They were giving _Faust_ that night, as usual, but this was no usual _Faust_. Earlier that day, the house's usual prima donna, Señora Carlotta Patti, had mysteriously taken ill. No one is quite sure as to the why, but when they heard of their diva's sudden illness, the soon-retiring managers chose the young soprano playing the role of Siebel to fill in as Marguerite.

"A bold move," said one critic, "for the newly retiring managers to choose an inexperienced soubrette to fill in for the popular Spanish diva as their last act in management of the opera."

When asked later as to why they took such a risk, the former managers stated, "She has always shown much potential. We felt that it would have been more of a risk to have to cancel the performance." However, they had seemed to show absolutely no interest in the unknown artist before. The young soprano's name was Christine Daaé.

Currently, throughout the theatre rang the divine cry of Marguerite's invocation to the angels in the final trio.

_Holy angel in Heaven blessed,_  
><em>My spirit longs with thee to rest.<em>

Christine sang these words with a divine rapture unlike any other that anyone had ever heard before. Her arms were outstretched, her throat filled with song, and tears streamed from her crystalline eyes as she gave forth this superhuman cry:

_Holy angel in Heaven blessed,_  
><em>My spirit longs with thee to rest.<em>

The audience burst into a thunderous applause and the overwhelmed Christine fainted into the arms of her fellow performers. No one had ever heard anything quite as exquisite.

The audience left, every one of them wondering why such a treasure had been kept unknown to them for so long. And why did she not have that same splendour about her whenever she sang as Siebel? It was all a great mystery to them and even to the diva herself.

XxX

Later that evening, after having recovered from her fainting fit, Christine Daaé entered her dressing-room, exhausted.

"What a night...," she murmured to herself, and sat down at the vanity. It was a simple dressing-room with a vanity, an inner-room for changing in with walls of curtains as a privacy aid, a gas lamp, a few cupboards and drawers, a small table with two chairs, a small chaise, a hat rack, and near the vanity, a large mirror which stood on the wall from the floor to the height of a man. On the vanity was a small mirror, a telephone, a hair brush, a powder rag, a pen and ink well, a few sheets of paper, a jewelry box, and a myriad of other odds and ends collected by the diva.

Christine sighed and began to brush her long blonde curls. She hummed the tune to a song from her home land, which she probably learned when she was very young.

_Allt under himmelens fäste der sitta stjärnor små.  
><em>_Den vänen som jag älskat, den kan jag aldrig få..._

She remained in this far-off dreamy state of mind until she was awakened by the sound of the telephone ringing. Jutting back into reality, she picked it up and answered.

"Hello," she said.

"Hello. Umm... who is this," came an unfamiliar woman's voice.

"This is Christine Daaé speaking."

"You mean _the_ Christine Daaé? The opera-singer? I am a great admirer of your work, Mademoiselle Daaé."

"Do excuse me, but may I ask to whom do I speak?"

"Oh! My name is Wilhelmina. Wilhelmina Harker, or 'Mina' for short. Please do forgive me for not stating so earlier, Mademoiselle Daaé."

"So, Madame Harker, how exactly did you get the number for the telephone in my dressing-room?"

"I didn't know that it was the number for your dressing-room, honestly!" stated the woman on the other end frantically, "I'm staying at l'Hôtel Scribe, across the street from the opera house, and on the dresser in my room, discovered a note, written in red ink, with a telephone number on it. I was curious, so I dialed the number and..."

"Wait a moment!" interrupted Christine, " Did you say that you found a note written in red ink?"

"Yes. And might I also say that whoever wrote it should really work on their penmanship. It looks as if it was written with used match-sticks."

"Very odd...," Christine murmured gloomily.

"Come again?"

"It is just strange. The manager have been receiving similar notes written in red ink and addressed to them by the Opera Ghost."

"The Opera Ghost?"

"Yes," said Christine, "There is a superstition that has been spread throughout the Opera of a ghost that haunts it. He frightens the dancers, blackmails the managers, and sits in box five at every performance. It seems a bit ridiculous though. A lot of nonsense if you ask me. I cannot believe how many people actually believe in that silly tale. It is just like the legend of Don Juan. Only made to frighten young girls into keeping their place."

"Legend or not, why would anyone want to leave me the number for the telephone in your dressing-room?"

"I do not know...," and she heaved a sad sigh, "Well, enough of this ghost business. Let us talk of something a bit more cheerful. Have you a lover?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"A lover."

"Oh! Well... I did, but he passed away recently. I came to Paris trying to forget him... We were engaged to be married...?"

"Oh... I am so sorry... I did not mean to make you remember..."

"It's not your fault. You were only trying to start up friendly conversation... Well, What about you? Do you have anyone special?"

"Well... I suppose you could say so. The two of us were childhood sweethearts once. It has been such a long time since I have seen him... He was there at the Opéra tonight actually, but I doubt that he would remember me. We were so young then..."

"Oh, that's too bad... Oh! Hold on just a moment, I dropped an earring... Wait a moment, what's _that_?..."

"What is what?"

"Well, I leaned down to find my earring because it had dropped and bounced under the bed, and found that there is a trap-door there."

"A trap-door?"

"Yes. I wonder where it could lead to..."

"Wait! It would not be wise for one to go down on one's own."

"But who am I to go with?"

"I would volunteer."

"You would?"

"Yes. I am just as eager to find out who put that note in your room as you are. It is a very curious matter..."

"Very curious indeed."

"I will tell you what, I shall come to the hotel Tuesday after rehearsal and we shall go down together. Is it a deal?"

"Deal. I guess I shall see you tomorrow. Good-night, Christine."

"Bonne soirée, Mina."

With this, Christine hung up the telephone. She took a brief glance in the large mirror. Satisfied, she walked over to the hat rack and from it took a fur coat, which she put on over her dress. She walked back to her vanity and blew out the few candles she had burning there. Then, looking up, she whispered these strange words which no one quite understood:

"Good-night, and thank-you, my dear Angel..."

She placed her hand on the knob of the door, but stopped, noticing an envelope which stuck out from her pocket. _Who could have put that there, _she thought as she took it out to better examine. She glanced over the writing in the front and her eyes widened. The young girl looked about frantically, then left the room in a hurry. It was him. He had remembered her after all...

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><p><strong>All right, thank you for reading. I would greatly appreciate any in put you have and will try to respond personally to every review submitted. Thanks again!<strong>


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